Down In Those Valleys Below
by killerkitty15
Summary: (2pFic)(NO FLAMES)(WARNINGS INSIDE) Oliver and Francois are both serial killers. They hate each other, simply for the fact that they prey on the same victims-prostitutes-who are in short supply. But, one night, they both find two lost boys that turn out to be brothers. Will these boys help bring these psychos together or only cause more bloodshed? Who knows what horrors await them.
1. Prologue -Prt 1

_**((FIRST: look at the poll on my profile!))**_

**This is a 2p!FACE family fic, under the pairing FrUk because...well...sex...yaoi, _gay sex_ between a crazy French loon and an Englishman that went completely bonkers**

**So, yeah, read the general warnings**

**If _you don't like_ anything that is going to be in this story, _leave_. Now. I don't want any flames. _NO FUCKING FLAMES!_**

_**Warnings for the Whole Story: gore, horror, smut, yaoi, murder, insanity, 2ps, mentions of prostitution, mentions of rape, dark themes**_

_**Warnings for this Chapter: murder, insanity, dark themes, 2ps, mentions of prostitution, gore, horror, insanity**_

**Enjoy responsibly~!**

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><p><span><em>Songs:<em>

Troubled Minds: Marina and the Diamonds

Miss Jackson: Panic at the Disco

Baby of Mine: Alison Krauss **(A/N: although I do enjoy the Dumbo version as well)**

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><p><strong><em>Chapter One: Prologue -Prt. 1<em>**

Oliver Kirkland was totally crazy. The doctors said so, his doting family said so, even he said so. The be-speckled Brit didn't get angry easily but when he did it was like a tornado of destruction. He also had these urges at night, not so much "sexual urges" per-say but more like...bloodlust. He owned a bakery so once a month he poisoned a cupcake -as long as he knew a child wasn't going to eat it because he just _ADORED_ children -but that didn't satisfy his urges. The only way to end them was by seeing blood drip down his knife and onto the ground. He became a 'Jack the Ripper' sort of type in Chicago, United States, targeting the prostitutes of the city that were often overlooked -those on the West Side compared to those on the North Side. But a prostitute was a prostitute either way; and, Oliver -who preferred to be called Ollie in any and all 'normal' (by society's standards) circumstances -took delight in tying them down, slipping a gag passed their pretty lips and watching them sob and try to scream as he mutilated their sex beyond recognition. It wasn't that he hated their tubes and genital flaps, Oliver simply enjoyed the look of abject horror painted on their faces as he shoved his knife inside of their cavity and flayed the representation of their gender. He did this before he deeply slashed their jugulars, ending their lives with a smile; then, he'd slice open their bellies and wrap uterus, kidneys and large intestines in plastic before placing that in a brief case. He'd leave a note, always signed at the end, _'from the Ripper -with love~'_ a heart always dotting the 'i's, before leaving in the black wig and black contacts he came in. Oliver did this about once or twice a week, just so he could satisfy his urges and have enough of their organs for meat pies, and it was a routine he was happy with.

Soon, that changed.

He had just finished up with the latest whore -a woman that could've beautiful in the past but had limp, dirtied dyed blonde hair and blank blue eyes surrounded by tired, black circles -when he heard rustling over by an industrial sized, alley dumpster. Curious, Oliver moved aside the rubbish and found a little, dirtied auburn haired boy hugging his knees and crying into them. His heart yanked and twisted itself, maternal instincts roaring like a tsunami. "Oh my..." he gasped setting his metal briefcase on the ground as he kneeled in front of the boy, "Pardon me, cupcake, but are you alright? Is there anything I can do to help? Are you lost?"

The boy nodded, fists rubbing his eyes as he looked up at Oliver, revealing his eyes to be an adorable burgundy color, bottom lip trembling. "M-My m-mommy was drinkin' and she yelled at Matt and I to 'get the fuck out'. Matt and I were sc-scareded so we r-ran but I don't know where he is n-no more..."

"Oh, you poor little lamb..." Oliver gasped scooping the boy up in his arms and pressing the boy to his chest, "What a wretched woman...what is your name, cupcake? And how old are you?"

"I ain't no cupcake!" he snapped but his fists curled into Oliver's white dress shirt desperately, "I-I'm Allen though...my brother calls me Al because he can't really say Allen 'cause of his accent, and all. I'm seven and so is Matt 'cause we're twins."

"Oh your mum is truly a vile sack of skin! To cast aside such a darling little angel..." Oliver mumbled in distaste, a shimmer of recognition in his mind as he looked at Al's face and saw the familiar shape of Al's nose and the point of his chin. "Tell me, was your mum's name Emily Jones by any chance...?"

"Yeah..."

_Brilliant._ "Al, I'm going to tell you something important," he said standing up with the child cradled in his right arm, bending to retrieve the brief case full of Allen's mother's organs, "it is most important that you listen and keep this between us men."

"...o-ok..."

"Al, I get rid of bad people like your mum," he lied, "She treated you so miserably that I just _had_ to do something. Someone else is taking care of your brother" -who was probably being raped and murdered -"very well and, when the time is right, you'll meet him again. But your mum won't hurt you again, I made sure of that."

"But who the Hell is gonna take care of me now?"

_Very good question..._ "I will, of course," Oliver said kissing the boy's cheek, seeing Allen's growing blush and giggling at it, "Oh, and, first rule: no potty mouth, young man, or else money in the swear jar~."

"What if I don't got no money?"

"Then you have to stand still, in a corner, for an hour."

"W-What?! No fuckin' way!"

"That's five cents~!"

"...fu-."

"Do you want to make it ten cents?"

"...no..."

Oliver giggled, rubbing his nose against Allen's in an eskimo kiss. "That's what I thought, cupcake~!" he said in a sing song voice, "Say, Al -hun -do you mind calling me 'daddy'? Or Papa, either will do."

"...you're a weird guy."

"So are you."

"Hey, I'm not weird!" Al insisted, "Don't call me weird or...or Imma beat you up, Daddy!"

Oliver felt his heart flutter and his face heat up; he so adored children, always wanting to have one of his own but knowing the physical limitation of his anatomy, and Allen calling him 'Daddy' sent his heart beating rapidly in an abundance of happiness. He carried Allen all the way to his apartment, which was above his bakery, unlocking the second door in the back of the bakery -there was a small foyer that held his mailbox between the front door and the inner door -and walking up the stairs lite by florescent lights that buzzed and flickered irritatingly. Unlocking the actual door to his apartment -he made sure to be extra safe, after all, you couldn't trust anyone these days -Oliver flicked on the light and set Al down in the entry way while he closed and locked the door. "Shoes off by the door," he said as he heard Al take a few steps in the apartment. Al ran back to Oliver's side, slipping off his sneakers full of holes and placing them by Oliver's brown, Italian loafers, before moving to explore the apartment. His apartment wasn't big, by any means, but it was bigger than Allen's old place he used to share with his mother and brother. There was a small kitchen with stainless steal appliances, granite countertops, coral paint and white linoleum floors, a living room with green walls -the shade labeled 'Scallion' green -and dark wood floors that went throughout the house except in the aforementioned kitchen, the bathroom and the two bedrooms. In the living room was a flat screen TV, a three seater sofa in front of it with a red floral pattern, red throw pillows and a white afghan blanket over the back, a coffee table covered with magazines and two wing chairs in solid red with white, embroidered throw pillows, there was also a wall of bookshelves and books. There were two rooms, one was Oliver's room while the other was acting as a guest room for Oliver's siblings when they came to visit, and one bathroom that was moderate in size. "I know it's not much...and we have yet to add your own personal touch on things," Oliver said placing his house keys in the key bowl beside the door and hanging up his black sport coat on the coat tree, "but I do hope that you find a home with me. You see, I've only ever had my cat, and I've always wanted a boy of my own."

"Thank you, Daddy..." Al said blushing and hugging the Brit around the hips, the only place he could hug without straining up on his tip toes, "U-Um...you...you have a kitty...?"

Oliver giggled, running his left hand through the little boy's hair as his right hand pulled off the wig Oliver used as a disguise. "I do, cupcake," he hummed wrapping his arms fully around Allen to pick him up and cradle him again, "you'll see him around eventually. He comes and goes as he pleases." The Brit began to walk to his second bedroom. "Why don't I tuck you in, hm? It's pretty late-."

"I don't wanna sleep by myself..." Allen mumbled his fists tightening in Oliver's shirt, "I've...I've always shared with my brother...I don't like sleepin' alone."

He shot Allen a small, gentle, motherly smile that made the little boy blush and look away; that's always how he wanted _his_ mommy to look at him...but he only ever got those gentle smiles from Matt, most of them forced grins instead of easy -natural -smiles. "Of course, Al," Oliver said rubbing his new son's back soothingly, "I would never make you do anything you didn't want to, love; my room is just down this way." The Brit carried Al to his bedroom at the end of the short hallway; opening the door, Oliver nearly blinded Al with all the happy colors in his room. The walls of Oliver's room were painted carnation pink, covered by pictures of his family, of different flowers and wildlife, as well as, pastry recipes from magazines and a cat calender; the floor was covered by cream carpet, on the wall that the door was on was a vanity and mirror, on the right wall was a desk with slightly messy paper work piled on top as well as a turquoise laptop, on the wall across from the door was a queen sized bed made out of white painted wood (that matched the white painted wood of his vanity, desk and wooden desk chair) and had yellow silk sheets and a down stuffed, white duvet with an orange floral pattern and, on the left wall, was a white painted dresser and a door that lead to Oliver's small closet.

"It's...really colorful..." Allen said lamely, at a loss for words since he really didn't like things that were too bright.

"Isn't it~" he giggled setting Allen on the bed and petting the boy's auburn hair lovingly, before going to his dresser and searching through the drawers, "Hm...let's see...ah! Here, I hope you don't mind wearing an t-shirt of mine, it's too small for me now but it might not be too big for you...?"

"Sure." He let Oliver take off his cheap, thrift store clothing, leaving on his underwear, before helping Allen get the t-shirt over his head. Oliver's old t-shirt was soft, a sign of it being well worn in the past, and plain grey; it fit without slipping off his shoulders but the short sleeves were baggy and went down to his elbows and the t-shirt ended at his knees.

"Oh~! That fits better than I expected~!" the older male giggled, rubbing Allen's arms happily, "Let me change into my pajamas while you get into bed. How does that sound, sweetie?"

"Good, Daddy."

Oliver giggled, digging in his dresser for a pair of pajamas before leaving to go change in the bathroom. Meanwhile, Al climbed onto the bed, pulling up the duvet and sliding beneath it; the pillow cradled his head it was so big, and he couldn't help but continuously run his fingers over the silk of the sheets and rub his cheek against the yellow silk of the pillow case. It was only a couple of minutes before Oliver came back, throwing his clothes in the hamper, with all of his disguise off. His wig he had already removed but, when he was in the bathroom, he had removed his colored contacts and the concealer on his face, revealing his freckles, messy, strawberry blonde hair and beautiful, unique, bright blue eyes with pink swirls.

"You look different."

He blushed, smiling sheepishly as he smoothed down the cotton of his white, frilly, sleeveless nightdress. "Well, yes, I suppose I do," Oliver said with a nervous laugh, "Like all superheroes, I need a disguise or else the Villains will come after me and try to kill me. You...you don't my appearance, do you?"

"_No!_" Allen said quickly, shooting up into a sitting position and looking up at his 'dad' with big, doe eyes, "No, I think...I think you look _p-pretty!_"

The older male clamped his hands together and squealed, even though Allen's face was bright red and he kept biting his bottom lip. "Oh, you really are precious, cupcake~!" he sang diving onto the bed and scooping Allen up into his arms, nuzzling the boy's cheek, "You're so sweet and _cute!_"

"N-No I'm not!" the boy insisted, shoving at Oliver's chest but failing to escape the man's embrace, finally, Allen just gave up and allowed Oliver to fawn over him, "Daddy...can we _please_ just go to bed now?"

"Yes, of course, if that's what you want," he said sliding Allen beneath the duvet, tucking him in before joining him, "you did have a rather long day. Tomorrow we will shop for proper clothes for you, we'll even see about enrolling you in a new school; that way, you can just take my last name and no one will be the wiser."

"Ok..." Allen mumbled yawning and cuddling up to Oliver's side, his head on the older man's shoulder, "whatever...good night, Daddy..."

Running his freckled, slender hand through Allen's tangled, untamed hair, Oliver smiled -like a mother -and kissed the boy's forehead lovingly. "Good night, my darling little cupcake. Sweet dreams..."

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><p><strong>BUDABUMBADUMBA!<strong>

**TA FREAKING DA**

**NOW I NEED TO SLEEP BECAUSE IT'S 2:30 IN THE MORNING AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF ANYMORE**

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><p><em><strong>Characters:<strong>_

**Allen: 2pAmerica**

**Oliver: 2pEngland**

**Emily Jones: prostitute Ollie killed, 2pFem America, Allen's biological mom**

**Matt: 2pCanada**

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><p><strong>I HOPE YOU LIKED IT<strong>

**SORRY IF I PUT 2pENGLAND'S NAME AS 'ARTHUR' I MEANT IT TO BE OLIVER BUT MY BRAIN ISN'T WORKING**

**SORRY FOR SPELLING/GRAMMAR ERRORS**

**I LOVE YOU **

**REVIEW**

**I HOPE YOU LIKED IT**

**GOOD NIGHT**

**...i love you...please LOVE ME! TTwTT**

**...i really do need sleep...**

**~kitty**


	2. Prologue -Prt 2

_**((FIRST: look at the poll on my profile!))**_

**Now: this stars Canada and France (2p versions) so enjoy**

_**Warnings: rape, murder, insanity, dark themes, mentions of prostitution, pedophilia, no gentleness or fluff really(?), Canada and France being smart asses, google translated english words into french -therefore -not accurate, 2p nations**_

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><p><span><em>Songs:<em>

Don't You Dare Forget the Sun: Get Scared

Don't Mess With Me: Temposhark _**(A/N: Francois' theme song throughout this story)**_

Lullaby for a Stormy Night: Vienna Teng

What Will I Remember: Emilie Autumn

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><p><em><strong>Chapter Two: Prologue -Prt. 2<strong>_

Francois was the type of person you'd figure for a serial killer; he was cynical, a loner and was notorious for hating even his own family, but whenever the police questioned his few acquaintances, all of them said the same thing: _"well, sure, Franny's a little odd but he's really a good person. He couldn't've done those things"_. Therefore, the police never had enough evidence -circumstantial or otherwise -to prosecute the Frenchman. Francois was rough around the edges, a smoker and drinker, but he had an air of charisma about him, the way he smiled -although, his smile was only ever a small smirk -at someone instantly got them wrapped around his finger, he also had a strict honor among thieves policy. His co-workers at the strip club he worked at, Akbar and Andres, were his only friends and the only two that knew about his "hobbies"; but, he could trust them. After all, they were criminals themselves and would give Francois an alibi on a drop of the hat. Francois rarely had any worries going out, thanks to them, and was beginning to dress nicer in slacks and a violet button down shirt. He took his satchel of toys with him, always, and the whores that walked the gritty streets of Chicago* never asked why. But they always found out later. They'd always end up on the short end of his toys, the chain he brought would be tying _their_ wrists to the bed, the cigarettes would be digging into _their_ stomachs and thighs, the whip and police issued riot stick would be breaking the skin of _their_ backs and stomachs and arms, _they_ were the ones that had a plastic bag around _their_ head as they were raped. Francois never really did know if it was the rape that did them in or the lack of oxygen to their brains, he didn't really care, though; all he knew was that _they tried_ to scream around the panties that were shoved in their mouth as a gag -a pair from the victim that preceded them -and their expressions of horror and fear were simply delicious, making him harder and them weaker. It was a constant urge beneath his skin, the memories only helping him get by for a week or so before they began to fade and Francois got hungry for their screams and tears again. His calling card, which he supposed all serial killers had, was always a smiley face painted in their own blood above their body -always spread eagle -on the wall above the bed they were in and, taking a knife, slitting from the corner of their lips all the way up to their cheek bones, right below their eyes. The press had given him the name of _"the Jovial Joker"_. He didn't really see how the journalists had come up with that, that was journalists for you, but he supposed it would do. It was Francois' life, though, and the Frenchman was content with it.

Just like Oliver's life, his was soon about to change.

Andres would most likely say it had something to do with "fate" or the "alignment of the solar system", but Francois insisted -and always would insist -that it was simply chance and coincidence. He had gone out again, a few days earlier than he normally would, out of boredom and lack of anything else to do. The prostitute he had chosen had the creamy, caramel skin and wavy black hair of someone of Hispanic origin and was currently laying in the cheap motel room, dead with dried tears on her cheeks and a bloody smile painted on her face, a face that would've been pretty if it weren't so heavily coated in make up. This time, as he was walking by an alley, he saw a little boy surrounded by three boys in their late teens; the little boy had long, knotted blonde hair with a curl falling in front of his eyes and striking dark violet, doe like eyes filled with fury as he pressed his back against a brick wall and glared up at the older boys. Francois stood in the entrance of the alley, watching the little boy -who was truly a cute, beautiful, little thing -interact with the gritty, dirty teenagers with their snapbacks on backwards and their jeans sagging enough to show their box clad asses with interest and mild amusement.

"Heya, there, looks like we gots us a lil' cutie here~" said the teen in the middle, who Francois assumed was the ringleader.

"I'm not cute, you hoser!" the little boy snapped narrowing his eyes.

"Come on, girlie-."

"_Girlie?!_ I'm a boy! Are you stupid or blind?!" he growled adorably, turning his head to look at the teen on the right who had called him a girl, "Do these look like girl clothes to you?!"

Their faces bloomed in color. "_No way,_" the middle one scoffed with a disgusting smirk, "Let's just check..." He reached down, hand reaching out to cup the front of the little blonde boy's jeans. Francois's eyebrow twitched angrily, taking a step forward -he couldn't just let a little boy be raped, he had always had an irritating soft spot for cute things and children, not that he'd ever admit that -but the little boy had already beaten him to it, it seemed, his little hands curling into fists and he hit the teen in the balls. The teen doubled over, wincing and gasping for breath.

Francois smirked and smothered his already quiet chuckle with his hand.

"Don't fucking _touch_ me!" the little boy snarled and even Francois was surprised that such a dirty swear word came from such an innocent, pretty mouth.

"Fu...Fuckin' _fag_..." he breathed still clutching his groin as he sneered at the little boy -the little boy who frowned and scowled at the word 'fag' just like how Francois ground his teeth in anger at it -straightening himself into a standing position slowly, "We're gonna have tah teach yah a lesson, now, aren't we?" The teen, definitely the ring leader -Francois was sure of it now, motioned to his two companions; the two other teens, who looked so remarkably similar it was almost sad, each grabbed one of the little boy's arms, lifting him up off the ground and pinning him to the wall.

"Let me go!" the little boy yelled, his head thrashing from side to side, blonde hair whipping against his face and neck, as he kicked out his legs and tried to break free of the teens' hold. His face was now level with the ring leader's, who breathed and chuckled in his face.

"Well, you lil' fag," the teen chuckled, hands hovering in front of the blonde boy's shirt, "you gonna say 'sorry' for bein' so naughty~?" The answer the teen received was saliva and little kid mucus being spit in his face. Getting red in the face, he wiped it on the hem of his t-shirt, growling. "So this is how you're gonna play this, huh." Without warning, the teen ripped the little boy's cheap, thrift store, red t-shirt down the middle, hands reaching up to touch the boy's pure, pale skin. That, Francois could absolutely _not_ allow.

Francois' steps were quick and nearly silent as he advanced towards the ringleader, removing the knife he had concealed in the pocket of his black pea coat and lifting his grey scarf so that it concealed the lower half of his face; he grabbed the back of the teen's white t-shirt, twisting it around his fist as he jerked the teen away from the adorable little boy whose anger masked his pure horror and fear well -but not enough. "Now, now, you disgusting swine," Francois said his his smooth French accent, his voice scratchy, though, from all the cigarettes he smoked and would probably end up being the eventual death of him, "you wouldn't want to filthy zhis gorgeous petit garçon, do you?" He didn't allow the teen to answer, shoving his knife in the teen's gut -twice -after he had spoken and allowing the male's body to fall to the dirty ground, into a puddle of..._something_.

"What the fuck?"

"This bitch's crazy!"

Before the two other teens could scamper away in fear, Francois grabbed the one that had called the child "girlie" and plunged his knife in the teen's neck, slicing it horizontally before spinning around to kick the other in the ribs, causing him to fall on the ground. Francois straddled his waist, plunging the already bloodied knife in his left lung before reaching in the teen's mouth, gripping the teen's tongue and slicing it off. "Zhis eez w'at you get for your silence, pazhetic fool," the older male said standing up and kicking the teen beside his friends, "You won't get any justice, zhey police will never find moi, you won't even be able to tell zhem anyzhing. Zhis eez your punishment, zhis eez ze one act of pity I will ever deliver." Francois quickly walked to the little boy, kneeling in front of him with the bloody knife still clutched loosely in his hand. "Bonjour, mon petit, parlez-vous français?" _(Hello, little one, do you speak French?)_

"Oui, je parle français," _(yes, I do)_ he sniffled wiping his eyes quickly, one hand clutching the two halves of his shirt together, "Allez-vous essayer de me violer maintenant, aussi? Ou allez-vous juste de me tuer?" _(Are you going to try and rape me now, too? Or are you just going to murder me?)_

Francois blinked, the only thing that betrayed his surprise. "Vous ne devriez pas savoir ces choses horribles," _(You shouldn't know about such horrible things)_ he said dryly, removing his coat and draping it over the little boy's shivering form, "Je suis François, quel est votre nom?" _(I'm Francois, what's your name?) _

"Matt," Matt said gulping loudly as he gripped the black coat, pulling it tighter around his body.

"Eh bien, Matt, que faites-vous ici si tard? De toute évidence c'est dangeureux." _(Well, Matt, what are you doing out here so late? Obviously, it's dangerous.)_

"Maman nous a sortis mon frère et moi hors de la maison pour qu'elle puisse avoir des relations sexuelles avec quelqu'un pour de l'argent...j'ai perdu mon frère et, quand je suis rentré chez moi pour voir si il était là, j'ai vu ma mère morte...Je n'avons nulle part où aller..." _(My mama kicked my brother and I out of the house so she could have sex with someone for money...I lost my brother and, when I went back home to see if he was there, I saw my mama dead...I don't have anywhere to go...)_ Matt said quietly, a solitary tear slipping down his round cheek.

Francois sighed, something in his chest tugging and twisting -it couldn't be his heart, he thought he had cast that useless organ aside long ago -as he ran a hand through his long, messy blonde hair. " Pourquoi ne viens-tu vennez-vous pas avec moi? Je vais vous ammenez quelque part pour être nourri manger. Un endroit chaud. Ensuite nous pouvons pourrons comprendre ce qu'il faut faire à partir de là," _(Why don't you come with me? I'll take you somewhere to be fed. Somewhere warm. Then we can figure out what to do from there)_ he suggested, not waiting for the little boy's answer as he scooped him up, Matt's face in his neck and his hands clinging tightly to his biceps.

Francois walked quickly, satchel banging against his hip and Matt shivering against his chest, taking out his cellphone and shooting Akbar a quick text of: 'you or Andres need to open the damn back door. i need to see you guys about something really fucking urgent'. It only took him ten minutes before he saw the one floor building, chipping brick exterior and blackened windows, the neon pink and green sign displaying a brightly smiling fireman, shirtless, and taking his suspenders on and off; the sign said 'Feli-atio's**: Bois and Booze~!', the somewhat failed innuendo made Francois roll his eyes as he walked passed the well lite front entrance, going to the alley where homophobic slurs were spray painted on the side -Francois took note that Matt flinched when the little boy read them to himself, closing his eyes and looking away, obviously knowing what those words meant -and knocking on the rusty, stained, green metal door.

The door swung open, revealing Akbar, a tall, albino man with obvious muscle; he had white-silver hair that went all the way passed his shoulder blades but was usually kept back in a messy ponytail -like at that moment, blood red eyes, three scars that ran horizontally over the bridge of his nose, a scar that went from the top of his left cheekbone and down on an angle to the center of his left cheek and a scar going vertical over his right eye. Akbar was rather serious, only truly able to loosen up when drunk, but he made sure that everyone at the strip club -rather they be the strippers, the bar tenders, the waiters, the cleaning staff, the managers, the patrons -was safe, his tight, black t-shirt saying "SECURITY" on the back, in white letters, his black jeans hugging his ass and well muscled thighs perfectly as his black, steel toed boots completed his ensemble. Francois had tried to get in the man's pants many, _many_ times but was always denied with a firm, blood chilling glare; the albino was hot, it would be blasphemy not to try and sleep with him. "...Vhat's zhis...?" he asked his deep voice rumbling, only betraying a small fraction of the surprise he felt.

"I zhink you should call Andres," Francois said adjusting the little bundled up boy in his arms, he sighed, "I can 'onetly zay I 'ave no idea w'at to do in a zituation like zhis..."

Silently, Akbar nodded, stepping aside and allowing the blondes to slip passed him. "It's his break anyvays...go vait in Egil und Håkon's room, they just vent on." Francois followed Akbar's instruction, without complaining for once, and went into the Icelandic and Norwegian's room.

It was small and shaped like a shoe box with peeling pink wall paper and dark brown paneling, there were costumes hanging on an exposed pipe that lead from one side of the room to another, a red, two seater couch shaped like a pair of lips, a vanity covered with make up along with a mirror that had those bulbous lights on the frame, a mini fridge beneath the vanity table, a red chair pushed almost right beneath the costumes and a milk crate was being used as a coffee table, already holding a filled ash tray and two red solo cups of white white -one of which had a lipstick stain on it. "Let's zee if zhere eez anyzhing zhat'll fit you..." Francois mused setting Matt down on the couch as he went to the costume rack.

"I-I don't wanna dress up like a slut!"

"Non, non, of course not," he chuckled finding a shirt that was cut to expose the wearer's mid-drift but would fit Matt like any normal shirt of Matt's size, "'ere, zhis should fit."

Matt caught the shirt that was thrown to him, looking from the shirt to Francois skeptically, but tried it on hesitantly none of the less. He took of the older male's jacket, placing it on the couch, and handed his torn up shirt to Francois, who threw it into the waste jacket jammed into a corner. All of the strippers' rooms were like this, a lot of stuff crammed into the small, shoebox like room, their home away from home; for some, the club was their only REAL home.

Matt was just reaching for the new shirt, when Andres came in almost silently if it weren't for the click of his shoes on the linoleum, face muscles twitching in irritation. "Fran, you're lucky you're not bar tending tonight. I was slammed before-" Andres cut himself off, his eyes narrowing in on Matt's exposed chest and becoming more green than hazel in their perverse, predatory excitement, "...and who. Is. This~?" The little boy's eyes widened slightly, but quickly narrowed as he grabbed the shirt to shield his small, untouched chest and the hinting of ribs from Andres' gaze. "Now, why would you do that?" he asked licking lips that had either suddenly become dry or out of hunger, maybe both, as his eyes roamed over Matt's delicate frame and round face, his straight nose, his small lips, his big eyes framed by thick lashes and naturally arched eyebrows. Almost in a trance, Andres took a step forward, "You have such a beautiful body, angel, why would you want to cover it up? Why-?"

"Andres, touch 'im et I will cut off your fingers and shove zhem up your ass'ole," Francois growled drawing Matt to his side protectively, either like a lion protecting a member of his pride or a mama bear -Matt didn't know which to compare Francois too. All Matt saw when looking up at Francois was possessive protectiveness, a sort of nurturing Matt had always been looking for in his birth mother, and a sort of loyalty Matt had been searching for in his birth father before the bastard left. When he looked at Francois, he saw a home, he saw love, and he never wanted to be anywhere else.

Andres blinked, coming out of his stupor, "What-?"

"Enough," Akbar spoke walking into the room and closing the door, the room feeling immediately more claustrophobic, "Have a seat. Ve need to figure out vhat to do vizh zhis little boy -nein, Andres, you cannot take him -ja?"

"Oui."

"Whatever," Andres snapped suddenly, making Matt jump, as he ran a hand through his long, slightly curly, brown hair, "Let's just get this over with." Truthfully, the Spaniard was a bit put out that the angel before him would not be added to his collection of pretty little dolls, his impatience and grumpiness returning ten fold as he took a seat in the red chair.

Francois helped Matt put on his shirt before sitting on the red couch, picking up Matt and setting him so close that Matt was practically in his lap. "Anyways -Akbar, Andres -I found Matt 'ere in an alley about to be raped by street zhugs before I 'dealt' wizh zhem," the Frenchman said stroking Matt's unbrushed hair adoringly, " 'e zayz 'is mozher 'as been murdered et 'is brozher eez no where to be found."

"He's probably dead," Andres said bluntly and emotionlessly, Matt's eyes began to water but he bit his lip to keep it in and Francois shot the Spaniard a death glare for making the boy upset. Andres bit his tongue, guilt making his fingers itchy for upsetting the angel before him -so pure and beautiful and, Andres could tell, that underneath the celestial visage was a cunning that would bring men to their knees and to their death. He felt a burning deep in his soul now, to see his own cheerful angel-doll back home, his Flavio whose parents Andres had killed because they beat Flavio just for dressing in girl clothes sometimes. They did the same with Flavio's older brother, Feliciano, when he was young and wore dresses. As soon as he had laid his eyes on the angel -who shared the purity, beauty and underlying cunning with Matt -that now shared his home, Andres knew he couldn't allow such terrors to be inflicted on such a marvelous creature. His blade had licked the skin of Flavio's parents' necks without regret, guilt or remorse. Feliciano had gone to live with his cousins Lovino and Luciano -the latter happened to own the strip club and had opened it just for Feliciano to inherit own day -while Flavio stayed with Andres on the promise that he'd not be touched inappropriately. Thus, the making of Andres otherwise known as the Skokie Family Slayer.

Andres really wanted to see his angel-doll right then.

"Don't listen to 'im, cher," Francois said patting Matt's shoulder, " 'e doesn't know w'at 'e eez talking about."

"Here," Akbar said handing the boy an apple and a milky way bar, "I can probably find somezhing to drink if you vould like."

"Non, I'm fine, mister."

"Akbar," the albino said with a gentle, rarely seen smile.

"Merci, Mister Akbar~" Matt cooed with a fluttering of eyelashes and a beaming, toothy grin, one that made Akbar blush and smile awkwardly before straightening and leaning back against the door once more. Andres nearly snorted -_sí, he is already bringing men to their knees._

"Anyways, I was wondering where I should take 'im," Francois continued as he helped Matt get the wrappings off his candy bar, "Ze police are out of ze question."

"Why don't you just take him home with you?" At the disgusted look Francois threw his way, Andres sighed in irritation, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I didn't mean it like that, stupido, I _MEANT_ that he needs someone to raise him, sí? Y it's obvious you care, what better home for him then with the man who saved him and gives a fuck about him?"

"Oui, I would like that very much," Matt said with an excited, happy glint in his eyes as he turned and latched his small hands onto the Frenchman's left bicep, "S'il vous plaît, Papa Francois~?"

He blushed, trying to find the reasons not to take Matt in but he found none. "Ah...um..." the Frenchman said groping for an answer only to fail, admitting defeat with a sigh, "oui, I will take 'im in..." Matt cheered, clapping his hands together in excitement before throwing his arms around Francois' neck and hugging him; the older male didn't return the hug, simply huffing and turning his blushing face away. "W'atever...we need to go. Au revoir, Akbar, Andres."

"Hasta luego, amigo," the Spaniard sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and brushing aside the stray strands that had fallen out of the purple ribbon in his hair, "I need to go back to work anyways..."

"Same," Akbar said opening the door to the room and stepping out into the narrow hallway, "I don't trust Lovino to handle ze door by himself..."

"Au revoir Mister Akbar" -Matt leaned forward, Francois arms tightening around his legs and waist to keep the little boy from falling, his small fingers landing on the sides of Akbar's head, tangling in the albino's messy hair, and he kissed both of the albino's cheeks -"Mister Andres" -Matt leaned forward again, angling slightly to the left so he could place a tiny hand on the Spaniard's shoulder and kiss both of the deeply tanned cheeks -"see you soon~!" Both males blushed and gaped, standing still in shock as Francois hurried away -not wanting them to get any filthy ideas about his little boy -and Matt waved good bye from over Francois' shoulder.

"Zhat kid..."

"I know..." Andres said gulping and turning back around to walk back to his bar station, "Francois is going to have his hands full of that one one day."

"Ja," Akbar grunted following the Spaniard, "God help us all vhen zhat happens."

~oOo~

Francois' apartment was small and on what was on the South West Side of Chicago, what was considered ghetto, but the people in his complex minded their own business, which was essential. He heard a dog bark on the first level as he ascended the stairs, no door man in sight, and he was glad Matt had fallen into a deep sleep on his shoulder. A couple was fighting on level two, a baby was crying on level three, a TV was too loud on level four, the sound of a party on level five, bad rap blaring from an apartment on level six but when Francois got to his floor, the last floor, the seventh floor, it was eerily quiet except for muffled voices and TVs coming from inside the different apartments as he walked passed them. Fishing his keys from his coat pocket, he unlocked the green door and pushed it open with his hip, one hand holding Matt and the other holding a plastic shopping bag in the other. His apartment was small and cheap; his kitchen small without the latest stainless steam appliances, a gas stove instead of an electric one, grey counters, off white linoleum, black cabinets and 'burnt orange' colored walls. The living room was bigger than the kitchen but not by much, it had a medium sized TV, a black recliner with cracking leather, a stained coffee table that held books, an empty wine bottle and a full ashtray, a three seater, green-brown suede couch, beige painted walls and grey carpeting that went throughout the apartment -except in the kitchen and the single, small bathroom.

"Papa?" Matt mumbled sleepily, rubbing his eyes with his fist, "Are we there yet?"

"Oui nous sommes arrivés, mon cher," _(Yes, we are, my dear)_ he murmured carrying Matt to his bedroom, "I'll 'ave to clean out my extra room, I'm currently using eet for storage, zo you'll 'ave to share wizh me tonight. If you don't mind."

"Non, I don't mind...my brother, Al, used to sleep in my bed all the time. He was scared of ghosts. And zombies. And spiders."

Francois chuckled, opening his bedroom door with his hip again. His bedroom had blue-grey walls, grey carpeting, a bed with a brass frame, black sheets and a duvet with the design of a French flag on the right wall, dark wood bedside tables on either side, an old dresser with brass knobs made out of dark wood on the left wall as well as the wicker door of his small closet. "Ah, eet's not much..." he said coughing awkwardly as he placed Matt on the bed, "zo I'll 'urry et try to get your room ready for you...in ze mean time" -Francois reached in the bag and handed Matt a white nightgown -"you can use zhese as pajamas...I'm going to go to ze bazhroom et change-."

"Why?" Matt asked cocking his head to the side as he jumped off the bed, "You're my Papa, non? So it's ok if we change in the same room, Al and I did it all the time!" With that, Matt took off his shirt and began to take off his denim, Bermuda shorts; Francois quickly looked away, getting his pajamas and walking quickly from the room. Matt watched him, feeling a little hurt as he took off his pants and pulled on the soft, white nightgown with puffy sleeves that went all the way to his ankles; he jumped back on the bed, his feet swinging from where they hung off the bed as he waited for Francois nervously. The Frenchman ended up returning fairly quickly, wearing navy blue sweatpants and a black wife beater, hair falling loosely around his face and just over his shoulders as he tossed his clothes in an overflowing hamper. Laundry was, obviously, not his for-tay.

"We better get you to bed," he said kneeling in front of Matt to tie the collar of Matt's nightgown shut, "Eet's been a long day."

"...oui..." the little blonde said letting himself be tucked in before Francois slid next to him, rolling on his side and facing away from Matt. "...Hey...Papa..." Matt said curling up with his knees to his chest and facing Francois' back, "You'll always be my Papa, right? Vous n'allez pas me laisser comme Mama et Al et mon autre papa fait ...pas vrai?" _(You won't leave me like Mama and Al and my other Papa did...right?)_

Francois felt something melt -again, it surely couldn't be his heart -and he rolled over, his usually harsh gaze soft as he looked at the adorable form of Matt, the darling -dare he quote Andres? -angel he had saved from defilement when, just an hour before he came upon Matt -he had been raping a prostitute, yes he admitted it was rape...there was no sugar coating it. "Non, I would never do zhat, cher," he said petting the side of the boy's head, "I am your Papa, now...I will protect you now et alwayz."

He smiled, happy tears hanging from his eyelashes as he snuggled into Francois' chest, enjoying the Frenchman's warmth and the fatherly arms that snuggled him. "Merci...je t'aime, Papa." _(Thank you...I love you, Papa.)_

"Je t'aime aussi, Matt," there was an uncomfortable feeling in his chest as he said this, but Francois quickly dismissed it with a frown as he closed his eyes. All he needed was sleep. _Yeah...sleep would help._

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><p><strong>PHEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW<strong>

**Ok, so, I want to end by saying that I don't think I did Canada and France's father-son relationship justice. It's a 2p story so i'm trying to make it true to their 2p personalities but i also want to make it so that their close...but i don't really know how to do that without Canada being shy and adorable and awkward, and France being perverted and over bearing and weird and cheery and a doting father (which i always imagine him as).**

***sigh***

**Anyways I hope you liked it **

**The 3rd prologue will be up THEN the story will finally start...can I get some applause? No? Ok then...**

_**REVIEW (?)**_

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><p><strong><em>Characters:<em>**

**Matt: 2pCanada**

**Francois: 2pFrance**

**Akbar: 2pPrussia**

**Andres: 2pSpain**

**Flavio: 2pRomano, about the same age as Matt&Allen**

**Luciano: 2pItaly, owner of the strip club that Akbar, Francois&Andres, the cousin to Flavio&Feliciano**

**Lovino: Romano, twin of Luciano**

**Feliciano: Italy, older brother to Flavio**

**Håkon: 2pNorway, stripper**

**Egil: 2pIceland, stripper**

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><p><strong>*I want to make it clear that I do not hate Chicago. Yes, there is a significant crime problem HOWEVER since this is a 2pFic i'm highlighting the crime and stuff more than the awesome stuff. I actually really do love Chicago, despite all it's faults, and there is no place i'd rather live (besides Canada...) so don't think badly about it. As long as you know what places to avoid then you're good. <strong>

****the name of the strip club "Feli-atio's" is a combination of Feliciano's nickname (Feli), since Luciano did buy&create the strip club FOR Feliciano, and the..."scientific" name for a blow job...i thought it was rather creative (since I made it up myself...but i dunno)**

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><p><strong>ANYWHO<strong>

**Sorry this prologue had more...meat (?) to it...i just thought that Canada's and France's meeting would have more to it then England's and America's (although England did kill America&Canada's mom...)**

**Anyways it's almost 1:20 in the AM and i have to work in the morning LMAO (not really laughing...i'm crying guys) so i'm going to go to bed...HOPE YOU ENJOYED THIS~! G'NIGHT~~~!**

**REVIEW  
>REVIEW<br>REVIEW  
>REVIEW<strong>

**From**

**~kitty**

**wItH**  
><strong>LoVe<strong>  
><strong>GODDAMN IT!<strong>

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><p><strong>EDIT: ok, so, I fixed the French (?) if i didn't fix it correctly just let me know and I'll do it again! And thanks to <em><span>Lokinas<span>_ who was the one who corrected me in the first place! Sorry if the mistakes distracted you and sorry if you had to do a lot of work on correcting my translations. I really do appreciate them, I was using Google Translate for all of them because I don't know French (or Spanish, or German, or anything other than English because I am an ignorant American... *tears poor down my cheeeeeeks*) ANYWHO, I know Google Translate isn't always correct (I amend that: it's _never_ completely correct) But, yeah, thank you for correcting me and I hope I did the corrections correctly**


	3. Prologue -Prt 3

_**Warnings: rape, murder, insanity, dark themes, pedophilia, 2p nations, yaoi, kinda sexism, OMG SEXUAL TENSION, sorry about the bad language translations, I also apologize for any English grammar/spelling mistakes**_

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><p><span><em>Songs:<em>

Sweet (A Trickster! Jane Crocker Fansong): PhemieC _**(A/N: Oliver's theme song throughout this story)**_

Don't Mess With Me: Temposhark _**(A/N: Francois' theme song throughout this story)**_

Love Is a Suicide: Natalia Kills

I Can't Decide: Scissor Sisters

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><p><em><strong>Chapter Three: Prologue -Prt. 3<strong>_

Oliver had his sleeves rolled up, white streaking his cheeks as he huffed, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. He leaned over the metal counter top, the heat in the bakery's kitchen making him flustered, as he expertly frosted the cupcakes; he placed generous amounts of strawberry frosting on each vanilla, strawberry and cream filled cupcake, eyebrows furrowed slightly in concentration.

Faintly, he heard the bell on the front door of the bakery ring. "Daddy~ I'm home!" Oliver smiled, putting the icing down on the table and turning toward the kitchen doors just as Allen burst in and threw himself as the Brit; the speckled man caught him, lifting Al in his arms and planting adoring kisses on Allen's round, chipmunk cheeks. It had been six months since Oliver had found Al and had, since then, enrolled the youngster in school; they soon developed a schedule of Al being away at school for most of the day and, after dropping the child off, Oliver would work until seven, play with Al, make dinner then it was bed time for Allen while Oliver took the opportunity to go out and have some..._fun_.

"Hello, cupcake, how was school today? Did you have fun?"

"Yeah, I met a lot of weird people!" Al said excitedly, "Oh, Daddy, look: I bought you a newspaper! The man gave it to me for fifty cents 'cause he said I reminded him of his little brother!"

"Thank you, my boy," he said taking the newspaper and placing it beside the tray of cupcakes he was decorating, "Do you want to be my little taste tester?"

"Yeah!"

Oliver giggled, grabbing a frosted cupcake and placing a Hershey kiss on the top before handing it to Al, "Eat this in at one of the tables and I'll be in there in a second~." Quickly, Allen ran with the cupcake in his hand to sit at one of the tables in the restaurant section of the bakery. Oliver turned back around, prepared to finish decorating the new batch of cupcakes, when his eyes caught on the front page of the newspaper; he picked it up, eyes widening at what he saw. It was the picture of a smiley face above the spread eagle, blurred form of a woman. His eyes went to the text beside it: _"the Jovial Jocker stroke again last night, claiming the life of Amber Lidel, a twenty five year old prostitute; Lidel has no living relatives. This is evidence of, not only Chicago's growing crime problem, but as well as the recent, overwhelming violence against prostitutes. The Jovial Joker is one of two serial killers that have been plaguing our city recently, the other being the Ripper -who mimics the famous English serial killer, Jack the Ripper. Police say the serial killers don't appear to be connect but, even so, they are considered to be serious threats to everyone around them. Law enforcement stresses for prostitutes to be on the look out for any strange men and to avoid being alone at all costs..." _The article went on and on and on but not about Oliver. Not about the Ripper. Oliver crushed the newspaper in his hand, growling softly. He had been mentioned once! _once_ during the entire article! Who the hell-?! "It's that Joker's fault!" Oliver hissed slamming his fist down on the countertop, "That...that _imbecile_! The rogue! How dare he?!"

"...Daddy...?"

Almost immediately, Oliver took a deep breath and calmed, turning to face his son. "Yes, cupcake?"

"Wh...Why are you mad...?" Allen asked hesitantly, slowly making his way into the kitchen and to Oliver's side. He looked apprehensive and nervous, twisting his fingers nervously.

"Well, hun, it's just I saw a bad guy in the newspaper," he easily explained kneeling down so he and Al's faces were level, Oliver cupped the red headed child's cheeks and smiled, "so Daddy just needs to get rid of him, is all."

"Woooow, Daddy, you're a real hero~!" the little boy exclaimed in awe and amazement.

"Thank you, puddin' pop~! Now, it's homework time, alright?"

._._._.

***Next Day***

Francois slammed the newspaper on the rickety kitchen table, making it wobble, and stubbed his cigarette out harshly.

"Papa, what's wrong?" Matt asked turning and looking over the back of the couch at his father. The boy had been reading a book for school when he heard his father's irritated huff-grunt as well as the sound of his cigarette being stabbed out. Francois didn't talk much about his feelings -the opposite of Matt's birth parents who had always been bitching and moaning -and, while Francois did make a comment or two on his feelings every now and then, Matt had learned to pick up subtle cues on his Papa's mood change. The newspaper slamming and cigarette stabbing were definitely signs that Francois was irritated. And pissed.

"Yesterday I was on ze front cover of ze Tribune, now eet eez zhis Jack ze Ripper knock off! Zhis...Zhis _uncreative_ _jackass_ eez killing on mon territory! 'E eez challenging moi! I cannot let zhis go, I cannot let zhis go unpunished!" he said slamming his fist down on the table angrily, causing his wine glass to tilt and break all over the floor, red wine probably staining the kinda white linoleum in the kitchen.

"When are you gonna do it?" the Canadian asked genuinely curious. Francois never tried to lie to Matt about what he did to those women -leaving out a few details here and there -but Matt trusted his Papa. It was better than Francois hurting innocent people, the boy -and Francois -argued; the Frenchman knew what he was doing and it was for the best.

"Tonight," he decided running a hand through his loose, long blonde hair, "Eet eez best to get eet out of ze way. You'll 'ave to go to ze club tonight, zhough...Eez zhat alright wizh you?"

"Oui, Papa~!" Matt hummed already bouncing in excitement. He loved playing at the club! Flavio was there to play with and so was Feli and Luciano -sometimes, and Akbar and Andres and the strippers -they all were nice people and they gave Matt candy and he always loved to tease them. He sometimes teased the patrons, too, but Akbar and Andres warned him -him and Flavio -not to because they were dangerous. They wouldn't think twice about raping a little boy.

Around seven o'clock, Francois walked into the front entrance of the strip club. It was dark, with black walls and grey carpet, with only the red, white, yellow and blue rotating lights illuminating the room. There were black lights beneath the stage where the strippers did their thing as well as underneath the tables, along the bottom of the bars' countertops and as back lighting to illuminate the bottoms of Scotch, Whiskey, Vodka, Tequila and other high end liquors of the sort. Gold glitter was embedded in the carpet and was painted in spirals along the walls, the padding of the booths and chairs red leather, the table tops and frames of the chairs black; the stripper stage was made out of pink, clear squares with colored strobe lights in the bottom -spot lights and black lights on the ceiling directly above the T-shaped stage with three poles down the center and two on each side.

Immediately upon entering, Francois and Matt were greeted by Lovino. The Southern Italian had his arms crossed -wearing a black t-shirt with "SECURITY" on the back, black skinny jeans and black gym shoes -and nodded to them, already used to this. After by passing security, they entered the main room, the two bars up front but with one on each side, the stage in the middle with red curtains hiding back-stage. The dressing rooms were only accessible by going through the curtains or from entering through the fire exit in the back. On the left side was a hallway that lead to small rooms where the strippers gave lap dances to clients that were too shy or provided them with other "services".

Andres was stationed at the left side bar, cleaning glasses as he flirted with a pretty woman with short, wavy blonde hair and long legs; Akbar was sitting near by, drinking beer -most likely of Germanic origin -from a pint glass. "Amis!" the Frenchman called, holding onto Matt's hand tightly as he led the boy over to the bar, "I 'ave brought you company~!"

"Francois! Matt! Amigos!" Andres exclaimed cheerfully, his eyes following Matt as the Frenchman took a seat on a bar stool and lifted his son onto his lap, "Nice to see you again~! This is a muy bonita chica, Bella."

Bella giggled, blushing and swatting Andres playfully on the arm.

"Matt~!" the Canadian turned around in Francois' lap, seeing Flavio running up to him, dressed in an all white sailor uniform -complete with white, knee high socks -as well as a red collar and red, leather dress shoes.

"Flavio! You're here too?" Matt exclaimed helping Flavio up to join him on his father's lap, the only -maybe -protest was Francois grunting from the suddenly added weight.

"Si~! Are you going to play with me again~?"

"Oui! That's always so much fun!"

Francois looked over at Andres, wanting the Southern Italian off of him, but all he got was a murderous glare. The Spaniard was seething, eyes glinting in a way that would make anyone else shrink away in fear, jaw clenched as he saw his precious angel-doll wiggling around on someone else's lap. On Francois's, the Jovial Joker's -a _rapist's_ -lap, wiggling and bouncing and -_damn it_, Andres couldn't help but think about how good it would feel if Flavio did that on _his_ lap, if Flavio was bouncing and wiggling on Andres' cock. Andres licked his lips, cursing violently in his head; fuck Luciano and Feliciano, fuck them both for making him keep his hands to himself!

The Frenchman sighed. He just couldn't win today.

"You going out because of vhat vas in ze paper today?" Akbar asked sensing that the Spaniard wasn't in the mood to converse with Francois.

"Oui, I can't let zhis...zhis 'Ripper' slip zhrough mon fingers," he said, "I 'ave to deal wizh 'im."

"Gosh, Andres, I'm so sorry!" Håkon exclaimed, running up to them in his tall, red, high heels, blue spandex, booty shorts and tight, white, wife beater, eyeliner and red lipstick on his face as well as the Norwegian flag painted on his nails, "I swear, I looked away for just one second and-! Oh, hei, Francois. And Matt, it's good to see you kjæreste!"

"Hey, Håkon!" Matt waved, "Is it alright that I stay here for awhile?"

"Of course kjæreste! Come on, you two!"

"Bye-bye Signore Bonnefoy!" Flavio giggled kissing the scruff on the Frenchman's face before jumping off his lamp and curling his arms around Håkon's leg.

Francois heard a glass shatter and turned quickly to see Andres' eye twitching and his right palm bleeding from where it had crushed and broke the alcohol glass he had been holding. "Oh, mein Gott," Akbar groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face as he moved behind the bar to tend to the Spaniard's wounded hand, "You're so troublesome..."

"Like, oh my God, is this _really_ the place for kids?" Bella asked, flipping her hair, her voice loud, high pitched and -over all -annoying. Francois' jaw twitched, Akbar remained emotionless and Andres scowled.

"Excuse me, belle dame?" Matt said, startling the three adult males surrounding him.

"O-Oh, yes?"

Matt smiled brightly, batting his pretty eyelashes as he got off of Francois' lap, moving with startling efficiency to straddle Bella's lap and place his hands on her shoulders. "You're very beautiful, fille, but, maybe" -Matthew leaned closer to her, still smiling as he rubbed their noses together in an eskimo kiss -"you shouldn't speak, oui? It makes you seem annoying and ugly. You're one of the ones that should be seen and not heard, hmm?"

Bella balked, tears in her eyes as she gaped. Akbar and Andres joined her in her gaping.

"Zhat eez mon boy," Francois chuckled, lifting Matt out of the woman's lap and kissing his cheek as Francois beamed with pride, "Je t'aime, mon petit chérie~!"

._._._.

Oliver watched the man, bathed in shadow, leave the cheap motel room, prostitute no where to be seen. The Brit smirked, walking forward and out of the shadows, moving quickly and removing a knife from the pocket of his trench coat; he raised his arm, about to stab the man in his kidney, but the man spun around. There was a flash of metal and a low, _clanking_ sound as their knives clashed, bodies pressed together and eyes challenging. "Ah, zo you are ze Ripper?" the man asked with a wicked smirk, knives continuing to clash and clank together.

"Yes," Oliver said recognizing the accent as French, "and you are the Joker, I assume?"

"Oui," Francois laughed pushing the Brit backwards, "and you are ze one zhat 'as been killing in mon territory."

"I didn't see your name anywhere," he responded pushing forwards, "who the bloody hell do you think you are?"

"Zomeone older wizh more experience." Francois kicked Oliver's feet out from beneath him, making the shorter male fall onto the gross, filthy covered ground with a tiny shriek; Oliver responded by growling and swiping his feet, kicking the Frenchman's feet so that Francois had fallen on his back and was laying on the ground, too.

Quickly, Oliver scrambled over, straddling the Frenchman's hips; his left hand tightened on the handle of his knife while he pushed down Francois' chest with his right. "Just because you're an old man, doesn't mean you can keep up with me, love!"

"I zuppose," he chuckled, punching Oliver across the jaw and grabbing fistfuls of Oliver's hair; he managed to wriggle out from beneath the Brit and rolled over, so Oliver was beneath him and he had pinned the Brit's hands and wrists to the ground, "But, zhen again, who eez now under whom?"

Oliver snarled, trying to wiggle free of the other man and pouting when he could not. The orange, yellow glow of the street light illuminated them, revealing their faces to each other.

Oliver had not worn his disguise that day, so Francois could see his pale, bronze freckled skin, round, soft cheeks tinted red with an angry and embarrassed blush, his cute button nose, messy strawberry-blonde hair and pale, rose colored lips. Oliver was...Francois was speechless, mesmerized by the adorable face and cute, apricot ears that his eyes were feasting on, feeling that lithe body wiggle beneath his, the Brit's thighs and knees brushing against Francois' groin. But, what Francois found the most intriguing, were Oliver's eyes, which were framed by thick eyebrows that looked like cute little caterpillars and eyelashes that were thick, brown, and resembled those you'd find on porcelain dolls; his eyes resembled green lizard skin or emeralds, with bright, magenta swirls and flecks of gold. They were haunting, mesmerizing, innocence and good intentions covering up something lusty, dark and mysterious. Francois found his jaw going slack as he drowned in Oliver's irises, willing to do anything for the Brit right in that moment.

Francois, on the other hand, never wore a disguise, confident in his ability not to get caught and the fact that he had a strip club full of criminals he could rely on for an alibi. The Brit could see Francois' strong, scruff covered jaw, the naturally arched brows that were messy and uneven, showing he did not pluck them, Francois' high cheek bones and angular face, looking almost harsh, yet so, so handsome. His attention was not caught by the chapped, thin lips or the dishwater-blonde hair that had come loose from Francois' rubber band and were swinging in his face; no, Oliver was drawn to the indigo-blue eyes of the man above him, getting lost in that intense, unyielding gaze as his wiggling ceased and he found his body arching upwards, seeking out the Frenchman's broader, bigger, hotter body that seemed so irresistible. It was like his body was on a string, his hips seeking out a mate to grind against as Francois' eyes called to him, enchanting him and speaking of unspeakable passions and romances.

For Oliver, it was love at first sight. For Francois, it was lust.

Oliver wanted Francois to hold him at him, kiss him gently, whisper sweet nothings into his ears as Francois kissed and licked the lobes, a hand tracing Oliver's spine in a way that was both soothing and seductive. Francois wanted to pin Oliver to the dirty, disgusting, ground of the alley way, tear his clothes to shreds until all the buttons and seams popped, marking that pale, virgin skin with his teeth and drawing blood, playing "connect the dots" using Oliver's freckles and Francois' tongue, to feel Oliver's perky ass around his cock and slim thighs around his waist.

"What's...who are you?"

"Francois," the Frenchman answered without thinking, too ensnarled in Oliver's gaze, "Et you?"

"Oliver..." he breathed, his freckled face blooming bright red, "I-."

A rat scurried past, rattling an industrial sized dumpster. Both men jumped, startled, and realizing what they were about to do with the enemy. Francois narrowed his eyes, hiding the lust and indescribable emotion -that Oliver had hoped was love -with anger, Oliver did the same -glaring at the man who had so easily placed him under his spell and kicking Francois in the middle of his chest. The men rolled away from each other, standing up and staring at each other as they retreated into the monstrous, stretching shadows of the buildings.

"_Oliver_."

"_Francois_."

"Zhis eez not over."

"Most certainly not."

"...Next time we meet, I will not be so forgiving. Or _kind_."

"I didn't expect you to be, poppet," Oliver said, with a deliciously seductive smirk that sent a chill tumbling down Francois' spine, "And I shant be so..._sweet_~."

"Oh, I would never ask you to be," the Frenchman said with a smirk, "Until we meet again. Au revior."

"Good night, love."

They walked in opposite directions, grins of expectation, thrill and hungry, murderous intent on their faces.

It was only the beginning.

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><p><strong>Duuuuun Dunn DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUNNNNNNNNNNNNN<strong>

**Wow, that was finally done**

**I'm so sorry that took so long! Forgive me! **

**I hope you enjoyed that**

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><p><strong><em>Characters:<em>**

**Oliver (England)**

**Allen (America)**

**Matt (Canada)**

**Francois (France)**

**Akbar (Prussia)**

**Bella (1p Belgium)**

**Lovino (1p Romano)**

**Flavio (Romano)**

**Feliciano (1p N. Italy)**

**Luciano (Italy)**

**Andres (Spain)**

**Håkon (Norway)**

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><p><strong>If you have any questions or are confused, tell me in the comment section<strong>

**Review please and, as always, you all mean so much to me**

**Love y'all**

**~kitty**


	4. Chapter 1 -Three Years Later

**Sorry for the wait guys!**

_**Warnings: rape, murder, insanity, dark themes, 2p nations, yaoi, weird fluff**_

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><p><span><em>Songs:<em>

Sweet (A Trickster! Jane Crocker Fansong): PhemieC _**(A/N: Oliver's theme song throughout this story)**_

Don't Mess With Me: Temposhark _**(A/N: Francois' theme song throughout this story)**_

Paint it Black: Rolling Stones

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><p><em><strong>Chapter One -Three Years Later<strong>_

The bell on top of the door rang. "Hello, A- _oh my god_!"

Oliver heard the exclamation of his cashier, a Belgian woman with short, curly blonde hair, made his head shoot up. He set aside the cupcakes he was icing, licking some cream cheese frosting off his index finger as he poked his head out of the kitchen door, which was situated behind the front counter. "Bella, dear, what's wrong?" he asked, concerned for the woman who was as white as a sheet. She shook her head and Oliver stepped up until he was behind her shoulder. What he saw had his eyes widen and a distress sound tear his throat. "Allen!" Allen, who was tall at ten years old with some pudge still clinging to his legs, tummy and cheeks, was standing in front of the entrance door with bruises on his face and scrapes on his arms, dried blood smeared on beneath his nose, on his upper lip and across his cheek, his clothes were covered in dirt, his right eyes was black and blue -half closed -and his hair was sticking up, looking like it had been pulled. A sick feeling in his stomach almost made Oliver throw up but he refrained, swallowing thickly and running around Bella and the counter to kneel in front of his son, his knees hitting the pale blue of the linoleum with an unforgiving clank. "Allen, cupcake, what happened? Who did this? Are you hurt?"

Allen shook his head, looking down at the pale blue, glittery floor. "N-Nothing...I fell down at recess-."

"Don't lie to me!" Oliver snapped with a tone so harsh and cold, so angry, that Al immediately flinched away from the sudden, loud noise. Seeing his son flinch back, Oliver felt a deep pain in his chest and he immediately softened his face and voice. "I'm sorry, my darling, I shouldn't have yelled at you. You see, I'm very upset."

"You...you are?"

"Yes, cupcake, but not at you. I want those bad boys that did this to you to suffer and pay for what they did. No one hurts my baby boy," the Brit cooed, hugging Al firmly, the boy a bit taller than him with the way Oliver was sitting, so Oliver let his head rest on Al's chest, his hands rubbing circles into the little boy's shoulder blades.

Almost immediately, Allen began sobbing, wrapping his arms around his Daddy's neck and hiding his face in the British man's hair. "Th-They were so mean, Daddy!" he sobbed, his entire body shaking, "Wh-Why do they h-hate me, Daddy?! I didn't d-do-o anything!"

"No, no, hush my darling," the older man hummed, picking Allen up in his arms and rocking him gently, "You're not in the wrong here, don't you ever think that you are. Ever."

Allen sniffed, nodding hesitantly and letting his Daddy coddle him.

._._._.

Francois placed buttered pancakes on two plates. They were Matt's favorite food and he made them everyday so Matt could eat them after school. Francois would make them in the morning, but both he and Matt were far too tired and irritable to have anything other than cereal. His cell rang and he pressed it to his ear, still focused on the pancakes, "Bonjour?"

"Hello, is this Mr. Bonnefoy?"

"Oui, who eez asking?"

"This is Ms. Alice Styles, the principle of your son's school," the woman said with a Cockney accent. Francois scowled, he much preferred the Ripper's -no, _what the hell was I thinking?!_ "I'm afraid your son got into a scuffle at recess."

The Frenchman's back straightened and he placed the pancake on Matt's plate, before turning off the stove. "W'at 'appened? Eez 'e 'urt?!" _Damn it, damn it, damn it! What the fuck do I have to do?! Wrap that brat in bubble wrap?!_

"No, sir, nothing besides a few scrapes and bruises."

"_Merci dieu_," he breathed, definitely not because he cared or anything, he was just glad he wouldn't have to pay a hospital bill.

"I will need you to come down to the school, however."

_Crap..._

~oOo~

"W'at ze fuck eez wrong wizh you?!" Francois roared once they were in the car. "Are you an animal? An idiot? W'at ze fuck made you zhink eet was ok to get into a fight at school?!"

Matt scowled, crossing his arms over his chest and looking out the window of the car; he sat in the back of the car, his seat belt diagonal across his chest and red plaid shirt, his black backpack by his red converse sneakers on the floor of the car, by empty candy and chip wrappers. "Because."

"Because-? Because?! W'at ze 'ell kind of reasoning eez zhat?!" he shouted, glaring at the child from the rear view mirror, "Do you 'ave any idea w'at kind of trouble-?!"

"Those kids were assholes!"

_Slap_! Without thinking, Francois twisted around in his seat, his hand making contact with Matt's face. They both stared at each other in shock, Matt touching his cheek with feather soft caresses. Francois swallowed thickly. "Don't use zuch language..." he said huskily, turning his attention to the road. The car was drowned in awkward silence, Francois experiencing an unfamiliar feeling: _guilt_. Violence was in the Frenchman's nature and he had never, in his life, been apologetic for being violent, even if it was towards his friends. But this...it was hot, thick, clogging his throat and heavy like a weight in the bottom of his stomach. He wanted to take the action back, go back in time and do something different. Of course, that was impossible. When Francois parked in front of his apartment complex, Matt darted from the car, book bag in hand, and into the apartment complex. Francois swore in French under his breath, running from the car -making sure to lock it - and hurrying to catch up with his son. "Matt!" He heard his apartment door open before slamming shut. "Goddamn eet, _Matt_, slow ze fuck down! Let moi speak! _Fuck_!"

Matt threw his book bag onto the recliner before running into his bedroom, slamming the door and making the walls all the way to the kitchen shake.

"Matt..." Francois sighed, running a hand through his tangled, blonde hair and leaning against his son's bedroom door, "Look, damn eet, I'm...sorry, alright? Jesus! I don't want you getting into trouble in school, comprenez-vous? Now come out 'ere zo we can talk!"

Slowly, the door to Matt's bedroom opened, revealing the blonde headed little boy with watery eyes. "You promise you're sorry?" he mumbled, sniffling and rubbing his eyes in a way that made it seem like he was trying to make it look manly.

Francois kneeled down in front of his boy, eyes soft. "Oui. I promise." The boy nodded, throwing himself at his father figure with his arms around his neck and his face in Francois' shoulder; the Frenchman held Matt firmly, closely, rocking him back and forth, rubbing his back as he sobbed quietly. "Eet eez ok, mon cher, eet will all be ok... 'ey, Matt, I know w'at will cheer you up."

"W-What...?"

"Why don't you go out wizh moi tonight?"

"R...Really, Papa? I can go with you?" Matt asked, wiping his eyes as he looked up at Francois, eyes big and wet.

"Oui, of course you can."

._._._.

Oliver tugged Allen along, keeping a firm grip on his smaller hand. "Daddy, will I get to fight bad guys with you?"

He smiled, "Not yet, but you'll get to watch." The Englishman was practically bursting with pride, happy that he would get to pass on his legacy to his baby. His offspring. His heir.

"Aw...I guess that ok..." Al pouted narrowing his eyes before poking his father's side, "for now!"

"Yes, yes, cupcake, for now," he agreed walking in down the dark alley, his briefcase hitting the side of his thigh, "The bad guy's house should be up here, I made an appointment to see her so there will be no surprises. You'll have to wait out side, alright?"

"Ok, Daddy."

Oliver and Allen approached where the prostitute was supposed to meet them, a motel that didn't ask for ID and was less than One Star. Fluorescent lights buzzed as they walked to room sixty six. Oliver raised his eyebrow in confusion when he saw a boy, around Allen's age, only with wavy, dark, dishwater blonde hair down to his chin, tired dark blue eyes, leaner, taller, and wearing a red flannel shirt, thrift store, dirty, red converse and denim Bermuda shorts. "Excuse me, lad, what are you doing here? Are you waiting for someone?"

The boy looked over with bored, lazy eyes. "I don't think that's any of your business, twink," he said before blinking, turning to fully face Oliver and Al as he narrowed his eyes, "...is that...oh my God, Al? Allen, is that you?! Mon dieu, Al?!"

The British man frowned, about to say something, when he was interrupted by Al, who let go of Oliver's hand and stepped toward the strange boy. "...Matt? Matt?!"

"Oui! Yes, Al, it's me!" the other boy cried, pressing his hands to his chest and taking two more steps towards his brother, "I thought...I thought you were dead!"

"No...No, this is Ollie, my Daddy who took me in!" Allen said, rushing forward and into Matt's arms, the two brother's sharing a long, relieved hug, "Where have you been?! I missed you-!"

"I know, I'm so sorry!" Matt hushed, pressing his face in his brother's shoulder, "I...my Papa-."

Matt was cut off by the door to room sixty six opening, revealing a content -if not tired -looking Francois, who was placing an unlit cigarette between his lips. "Matt, cher, are you ready-?" He stopped abruptly, eyes falling on Oliver and no one else, "...Ripper, w'at are you doing 'ere?!" Francois hated the way his heart was beating, seeing this...man, obviously in some sort of disguise, hiding his beautiful appearance.

"What am I doing here? What are you doing here?!" Oliver snapped, "Did you -no...NO! Get out of my way!" The Brit pushed passed the intruder, shoving open the door and -the scene was beautiful. A beautiful mess with the Joker's name sake on the wall, in blood, blood soaking the cheap sheets and the whore's body laying prone and dead in the center of the bed. "You...how could you?!" Oliver shouted, spinning around on his heel, tears in his eyes, "How could you?! She was mine!"

"I didn't zee your name on 'er, Ripper-."

Al gritted his teeth, yanking on the sleeve of Francois' jacket. "Hey! His name is Ollie, you butt hole!"

"Allen, your language!" Oliver scolded, blushing bright red, his eyes darting to Francois.

"Ollie? 'ow...cute..."

"W-Why I have half a mind to-!"

"Papa!" Matt yelled, walking up to the Frenchman and hugging his waist, "Papa, do you remember how I told you I had a brother when you first found me? This is him! This is Al! He's alive, Papa!"

Finally, Matt and Allen's words had sunk in, Francois and Oliver's eyes had snapped to the two children, staring at their guardians expectedly. They're...brothers? "Al...Allen, we have to go..." Oliver said, his voice quiet and quivering. _If Al found his brother...oh my God, he'll want to leave me!_

"Wh-Wha...But Daddy-?"

"Come on now, Matt, we 'ave to go before zhere eez anymore trouble."

"Wait, non, Papa! What about Al?!"

"...we will zee 'im again," Francois lied. Unknown to Oliver, Francois was having the same thoughts as him and was willing to lie to the boy he considered a son in order to keep from being alone. That's not to say that Francois was _lonely_, he just thought he was, _obviously_, a better choice to take care of the kid.

Oliver picked Al up in his arms, holding him protectively as he glared at the handsome man in front of him. Part of him wanted to...Oliver didn't even know, but part of him wanted something with Joker. Wanted something with the legally handsome man who looked so, so serious and...and full of depth. He wanted to be part of that depth, wanted that depth to be part of his life. "Yes, we will...soon."

The Frenchman picked Matt up, glaring at Oliver with a look in his eyes that would send any normal person running or, at least, cowering in fear. But Oliver wasn't normal. Not by any means.

They began walking away, in separate directions. Matt and Al adjusted themselves on their guardian's shoulders, looking at each other as they got farther apart. Al gave his brother a big smile, waving naively and truly believing that fate, and Ollie, would let him see his brother again. Matt grinned, his little heart thumping because he truly did miss his brother, and waved back...but he knew that Francois and that weird Brit Al was so in love with wouldn't let them meet up again. Unless...unless Matt did a little work and forced the two together. _Yeah...that will definitely work..._

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><p><strong>DONE!<strong>

**AND OMG I AM SO SORRY ABOUT THE UPDATE TIME! THIS TOOK FOR-EVER AND I DONT KNOW WHY!**

**Anywho, I love ya! **

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><p><em><strong>Characters that have suddenly appeared in this chapter:<strong>_

**Alice Styles (Nyo!England) (Matt's school's principle)**

**Bella (Belgium) (works at Oliver's bakery)**

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><p><strong>OK GUYS! THAT'S IT!<strong>

**I LOVE YOU AND PLEASE REVIEW!**

**Happy holidays and lots of hugs,**

**~Kitty**


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